


two sides of lonely

by mochroimanam



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: As much explicit consent as is feasible for this pairing, Badly functioning Mark, Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Powerless Damien, Sorry Mark :(, Spoilers through Episode 48, Unhealthy Relationships, because that's pretty important to me even when it's garbage people, or is it???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochroimanam/pseuds/mochroimanam
Summary: Mark tucks his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, then, instead of knocking, goes right for the doorknob, curling his fingers around the cold brass and twisting. It’s actually locked. Somehow, he hadn’t been expecting that. He pauses, struggling to figure out what the next step should be, but then through the wood there’s a gruff voice, the same one that scrapes something in his gut every time he hears it in his dreams. It’s a thousand times worse in person.“What do you want?”Fury flares in Mark, hot and salient like that last fight had just taken place yesterday, not ten months ago. “I want to know what the fuck you’re doing here, Damien.”There’s a good ten seconds of silence, and then, much softer, imbued with some emotion that Mark can’t make out past the pounding in his ears: “Mark?”“Open the goddamn door.”---Prompted mainly by: "Any of my internal organs you desire for a fic where damien gives mark an apology blowjob as a last resort" & "Damien in general groveling and begging on his knees for Mark to give him anything at all is...quite the mental image." - fan discord





	two sides of lonely

**Author's Note:**

> S/o to Lauren for LITERALLY putting out a Mark/Damien playlist while I was writing this (title is a song from the playlist). She, + the fan discord, enabled this 2000%. I can't believe I broke and wrote this gd pairing. but after that last ep??? um??? I'm a slut for drama and desperation I guess. 
> 
> Thank you to my sweetheart Nix for helping make this much more readable, and also for all the practice writing blowjobs. 
> 
> Final a/n - Mark and Sam are not together during the course of this fic (doing the whole "we need some time to be separate people aka you are crashing and burning and that's not okay). Sorry Mark.

It’s a shitty fucking motel.

The dingy maroon paint of the door is starting to peel off in long strips. Mark licks his lips; contemplates grabbing hold of the edges of one of them and ripping it off, all the way down to weather-stained wood beneath. His cheeks are chapped from the biting wind - he’d ridden here on his new bike, a recent craigslist purchase that’s another in a long line of random decisions that he’s fully willing to admit are not quite the dictionary definition of rational. He can hear Joanie’s voice in his head talking about _downswings_ and _coping through impulsivity_ and _please consider giving group another try, Mark,_ although at least she’s stopped trying to talk to him about it in real life, after the fifty or sixtieth fight. And hey, he’d cut down on the drinking, at least. Now he only starts before six on the _really_ bad days.

Anyway, he’s here now. Might as well not break the streak of action without thought. Not that he hasn’t _thought_ about this - how could he not, after that last bitter showdown, and the way they’d left things? It had felt so good, so _fucking_ good to tell Damien exactly where he could get off, to rip into him the same way Damien had dug a hole in Mark and left something rotten. But it had also exhausted him - the knowledge that after everything, it was a lost cause.

And then Damien had actually gone and done what Mark had told him to, leaving that very day without another word, which had been shocking in a dull sort of way, like touching a battery to your tongue. And Mark had tried to stop thinking about how and what he was doing out there, wherever the fuck he was, with his cooked up identity and his total inability to be a functional person. But there’s been plenty of mornings when he’s woken up and been glad that he and Sam are on a break and that he’s waking up alone, because wanting to stop thinking about Damien hasn't translated into not still dreaming about him. Mark’s failed at ignoring Damien’s existence just as badly as he’s continued to fail to pretend he knows how to function.

And now the bastard’s come back, like a rabid dog that doesn’t know when it’s outnumbered. Ten fucking months of no contact, and they get word from Green that Damien’s checked into a shithole on the edge of town. No signs that his power’s back, but that’s hardly something they can rely on. Joan would kill Mark if she knew he was there - hell, any of them would. They have no idea what state Damien’s in - if he’s back to being as dangerous as he was before, if he’s plotting something like the super villain he thinks he is. But Mark’s not fucking lying down and waiting around to find out what he’s going to pull this time.

It’s starting to rain now. Mark can hear the hush of it on the asphalt behind him, and he’s going to get damp if he keeps standing here, pretending he can’t taste the ferocity of his heartbeat on his tongue as he gives himself this angry pep talk. He takes out his phone, puts it on silent, double checks the room number in the text Green had sent him -- probably very much against Green’s better judgment, but he owes Mark on so many levels that he’s not very hard to manipulate. Mark tucks his phone in the back pocket of his jeans, then, instead of knocking, goes right for the doorknob, curling his fingers around the cold brass and twisting.

It’s actually locked. Somehow, he hadn’t been expecting that. He pauses, struggling to figure out what the next step should be, but then through the wood there’s a gruff voice, the same one that scrapes something in his gut every time he hears it in his dreams. It’s a thousand times worse in person.

“What do you want?”

Fury flares in Mark, hot and salient like that last fight had just taken place yesterday, not ten months ago. “I want to know what the fuck you’re doing here, Damien.”

There’s a good ten seconds of silence, and then, much softer, imbued with some emotion that Mark can’t make out past the pounding in his ears: “Mark?”

“Open the goddamn door.”

The _snick_ of the deadbolt makes goosebumps prickle down Mark’s arms, and they get worse when the door opens and Damien’s really, truly, standing there in front of him. It takes Mark a moment to identify the naked shock on his face for what it is. No stupid smirk, no rapid-fire anger twisting his features, just wide eyes, lips slightly parted, like he’s on the verge of saying something, but nothing’s coming out.

Mark would punch him, if he didn’t still feel nauseous at the memory of Damien’s face covered in blood, lip and eye swollen to unrecognition. Instead, he makes a sharp motion with his hand that somehow effectively communicates that Damien needs to get the hell out of the way so Mark can push past him without having to touch him. He does, moving stiffly, and Mark stomps into the room, eyes flicking around for any obvious threats. There’s nothing but the usual stale decor, a bed with a cracked wooden headboard, a small black suitcase in the corner. Somehow, that suitcase infuriates Mark all over again, the confirmation that Damien had _planned_ to be here, had actually packed whatever shit he’s acquired and brought it here and -

Fuck. As Damien closes the door silently behind him, Mark is hit with the sense memory of dozens of motel rooms across dozens of state lines, the scent of greasy takeout and feel of raspy sheets and sight of Damien always across from him, watching a stupid movie on the broken tv, sleeping on the bed next to his, resting a hand on his shoulder as Mark had sobbed and gasped and fallen apart over and over again. For a second, Mark forgets how breathing works, he's so blindsided by the reminder of it all, and he has to force his lungs to work through sheer stubborn will, letting the anger that's built a home in him erase the panic.

When he's composed himself, he turns around slowly. Damien's not looking at him; his eyes on the stained carpet like it's got something to tell him. Mark gives himself a moment to study him. He looks like shit, to be honest, but maybe not as bad as the last time mark had seen him. He's clean-shaven at least, and his hair is longer and a little raggedly cut, like he'd done it himself in the mirror. His usual _I'm-a-badass_ leather jacket is absent, but there's a bomber jacket slung over the chair in the corner. He's wearing a basic black shirt and tight jeans, and he’s barefoot, and that, somehow, is what spurs Mark to finally speak.

“You didn't answer my question,” he bites out, voice measured, but heavy with acid. “Why are you here?”

Damien's gaze flicks up at him briefly, then back to the carpet. It's weird, given his love of staring people down with his unsettling gray eyes. His face is carefully blank now. “I'm - how did you know I was here?”

“Did you seriously think we wouldn't keep tabs on you?” Mark licks his lips, resists the urge to step forward and ball his hands in Damien's shirt and _shake_ him. “Is your power back? Is that why you're here? Come to try to mindfuck us into forgiving you, or do you want to try to abduct one of us again?”

Damien winces. At least, that's what it looks like, a momentary spasm of his sharp features, his fingers twitching by his side. “No. Nothing like - it's not back.” Low, gravelly, monotone. “Don't think it's coming back.”

Mark’s not stupid; he's been feeling for signs of Damien's power since he got in the room, either from Damien or echoing in himself. After all the time they spent together, and the time when Mark had possessed Damien's power, Mark has a pretty good grasp on how it feels to have someone else's will prickling at the edges of his mind. He's felt nothing, the same way he’s felt nothing for months on end.

“Fuck,” Damien finally says when Mark doesn’t respond, voice ragged. He runs a hand back through his hair, a gesture so familiar that Mark could choke on it. “I shouldn't have come back.”

“Wow, I think that's the first intelligent thing I've ever heard you say,” Mark snaps, shifting his weight. “Maybe your time away has made you, like, one percent more sensible.” His question still hasn't been answered, though, and the keyed up energy in his spine, his shaking limbs, demands it. “Why did you come? Answer me.”

Damien closes his eyes, seems to hunch in on himself a little. It's jarring - Mark forgets that he's taller than Damien, sometimes, but he's very aware of it in this moment. Damien's eyelids flutter, another pained expression momentarily creasing his features, and then he says, finally with a spark of his old tinderbox fury, “Because I'm _sorry_ , okay?”

Mark barks out a brief, unamused laugh, heart twisting painfully beneath his sternum. “That's a good one. You tried that before, remember? Right after I read you the laundry list of your - “

“I didn't _understand_ before,” Damien interrupts. There's a desperation in his eyes that Mark's seen before, usually right before he does something selfish. If you peel back all the layers of Damien, that's probably all that's underneath - a seething, ravenous desperation that eats up everything in its path.

“Oh, and now you do?” Mark demands.

“No,” Damien snarls, his voice as thin as glass. “I know I don't. I can't. But I'm fucking trying, Mark, I'm - “

Mark shakes his head and makes another violent slashing motion with his hand to cut Damien off. “Save the bullshit, Damien.” Damien blinks rapidly, and Mark can see the reflection of the light of the room in the corners of his eyes where tears are gathering, and he tells himself he doesn't care. “You came here to stir things up and fuck up another apology, and you’ve done that, so now you can turn right around and go the fuck away. We're done here.”

Mark starts to stride forward, wanting nothing more than to get out of the small room before he has to watch Damien crack apart again, but he's stopped in his tracks as Damien's knees thud heavily to the carpet. For a second, Mark thinks maybe he's fallen, except then Damien's crawling the few inches toward him, looking up at him like a drowning man. “No,” he whispers. “Mark. Don't leave, please. I - “

Mark sidesteps him, knees so shaky he's amazed he doesn't fall himself, and Damien turns to follow him, snagging his fingers in the edge of Mark's coat and holding it tightly. “Please, God, don't leave. I know I shouldn't have come back - I know you're never going to fucking forgive me, I know. I know there's no - I know we're done. Just let me - _fuck_.” He swipes at his eyes with his free hand. Mark wants to stop him, but he’s speechless, words dead in his throat at the depths of this. “ _Please_. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how sorry I am. Let me - “ he crawls forward, suddenly so close , and then his hands are going to Mark's belt buckle, and shock slaps Mark so hard in the face that he's momentarily frozen. Damien's able to tug the end of the belt free before Mark can move, shoving Damien's hands forcefully away.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, and he hates that his hormones are suddenly surging, tangled up in the intensity of the emotion and the sight of Damien on his knees. “What are you - “

“Please,” Damien begs, and that's what it is - pride and ego shoved aside, apparently less important than his need for - what is this? Absolution? Self harm? Mark should be disgusted. He can't move. “Mark. I need to show you how sorry I am.“

“By - what? Blowing me? You think that's how this works?” Mark asks disbelievingly, still frozen. _The door is right there_ , he tells himself, but still, he doesn't move.

“No,” Damien insists, looking up at Mark imploringly. He's at least not crying anymore - he's got this fervor in his eyes, so intense and focused, it's like physical heat. “Come on. You hate me so much, take it out on me. I'll take anything, anything you wanna give me, just - don't leave, not yet. I promise I'll go after, I swear it, just - please. Let me make you feel good.”

Mark inhales slowly, wondering wildly if he'd gotten it wrong, and Damien's power is working. But he knows without a doubt that he could leave if he really wanted to, if he really wanted to. And if Damien's power was affecting him, Damien wouldn't have to beg like this. He probably could've had Mark in his mouth the second he walked in the door.

Damien seems to take his silence for assent, because he slowly draws his hands back up to Mark's belt, gently tugging the leather free. “Mark,” he repeats, gravel over steel, gray eyes fixed on Mark's face, fingers finding the button of Mark's jeans and clumsily working them open. “Let me make you feel good.” He slides the zipper down, then pauses, that desperation a wildfire in his eyes. “Can I?”

Mark exhales. He could stop this now. He could say no, he could push Damien away, he could never speak to him again.

But fuck, he's dreamt this.

Fuck, he's already mostly hard.

“Please, Mark,” Damien whispers, and it’s that final _please_ that breaks his resolve clean in half.

He nods.

Damien makes a small sound in the back of his throat that shouldn't be as hot as it is, and then he's tugging Mark’s jeans open and his boxers down below his balls, allowing Mark's cock to spring free, untouched. The sudden cool air is another jolt of reality. This isn't the blurry world Mark's been living in; this is high definition, impossible to ignore, fifty-foot surround sound awareness.

Damien finally breaks eye contact with him, and before Mark can second guess anything or pull away, Damien's mouth opens and the head of Mark's cock is enveloped in slick wet heat, and Mark can only gasp and shut his eyes and slap his palm against the wall. A hand closes around the base of Mark's cock, and Mark can't pretend it's not Damien's, because he knows the way Damien's hands feel on his skin, and his eyes snap open again in time to see Damien's own eyelids flutter shut. He seals his mouth around the tip of Mark's cock and gives a soft suck, and his brows are creased almost as if he's in pain, and that's - that's -

“Stop,” Mark gasps, pulling back fast enough that one of Damien's incisors nearly gets him on the way out. “You don't - why are you doing this?”

“I told you,” Damien insists breathlessly, his grip loosening around the base of Mark's cock. “I need to make it up to you - “

“ _Need_ to,” Mark repeats, shaking his head. “No, that's - if you're doing something you don't want to out of some sick sense of - “

“I. Want. To.” Damien's gaze bores into Mark. “I always fucking wanted to, but I never _wanted_ to, with my - power, I mean, I never wanted that, but now maybe I can, if you - “

Mark's heart is beating too fast and his head is too hot and his cock is too hard to unpack that right now. “I don't understand.”

“You don't have to,” Damien insists. “You don't.” His voice gets lower, and he licks his lips, a fast little dart of his tongue. “Just fuck my mouth. I want you to, you want to of your own fucking will, it's all above board, please, _Jesus_ , Mark - “

Mark shudders, his cock twitching in Damien's loose grip. He doesn't trust Damien for a second - that ship crashed on the rocks a long time ago - but his gut tells him Damien's not lying. But still - “This isn't forgiveness,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “This changes nothing.”

Damien doesn't react aside from a soft inhale. Then, “I know.”

“Fuck,” Mark mutters. He's going to every hell he doesn't believe in and then some. He nods without quite meaning to, and Damien groans softly - almost like he's getting off on just Mark saying yes, and that's something that Mark also doesn't have the time to unpack before Damien's taking Mark's cock in a more firm grip and once again sliding his lips over the head.

It's so much, because this time, Mark can't look away. Damien opens his mouth wider and swallows and sinks down a few inches, creating a pulsing, sucking heat that spears pleasure deep in Mark's gut. His legs tremble, and he makes an inadvertent noise in his throat. Damien's gaze flickers up at him, and his tongue drags against the underside of Mark's cock as he bobs his head a little, messily eager, and that’s - Jesus, Mark hates that he’s dreamt of this so vividly, and that the dreams were nothing compared to the real thing.

Mark's hand goes to his hair, needing something to hold onto, and that makes Damien's eyes roll back a little as the suction increases, shooting sparks up Mark's spine. He doesn't mean to fist his hand in Damien's hair the way he does, but when Damien lets out a muffled, throaty moan, Mark curses, and keeps his grip tight. He can't believe this is happening, but at the same time, everything is crystallized in the present, vivid in a way Mark can't ignore - The little throaty sounds Damien's making as he blows Mark with an enthusiasm that Mark doesn't know what to do with. The texture of his hair, surprisingly wavy with its new length. The sight of his dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Pleasure coils tight as a spring in Mark’s low belly, and he finds his hips moving a little, thrusting mindlessly into the sensation.

Damien chokes slightly, then closes his eyes tighter and seems to double down, working to fit Mark's cock into his throat. He swallows and Mark goes blind for a second as the wave of it all crashes into him, and for a second he thinks he's about to come, but then he doesn't. Instead, he winds his fingers deeper into Damien's hair and starts thrusting into his mouth in earnest, in a way he's never let himself do with anyone else. The way Damien responds, a choked off cry that reverberates through Mark's low belly, does nothing to deter him.

Damien’s eyes are still closed, and that’s - no, Mark needs - “Look at me,” Mark demands, and Damien’s eyes shoot open, the whites showing a little too much around the irises. Mark grunts and thrusts harder, and Damien chokes around him, but doesn’t take his eyes off Mark’s face, even as he winces. Mark breathes past the kaleidoscope of sensations dragging him under, turning off all instances of higher thought, chasing the pleasure, chasing the way Damien wants him, forgetting momentarily the way that same want sickens him. All it is in this moment is a beacon.

Mark chokes him again, cutting off his breath, and Damien’s eyes start to fall shut until Mark wrenches at his hair and they pop open again. There’s a muffled whimper, and Mark pulls back enough to let him breathe, his own lungs heaving for air. “Is this what you fucking wanted?” he growls, not recognizing his own voice, and pulls his cock all the way free from Damien’s mouth, letting it drag obscenely across his cheek.

Damien shudders - his hand had fallen away from the base of Mark’s cock a while ago, and he’s got both his fists clenched on his own thighs. “ _Yes_ ,” he gasps, voice as broken as Mark’s ever heard it, and that’s all Mark can handle hearing before he shoves his cock back into Damien’s mouth. Damien moans around him, and Mark lets out a garbled “ _fuck_ ” as the vibration hits the sensitive nerves in the head of his cock. He fucks into Damien’s mouth shallowly for a few moments, not realizing how fucking close he is until suddenly the orgasm is suddenly right there, looming huge as the tension in his body crackles with electricity and need. He thrusts deep and gasps and fists at Damien’s hair, and then everything snaps in half as he’s coming hard into Damien’s mouth. The orgasm seems to spill from the very center of him, smashing him to pieces on the way through, dark waves of pleasure mixed with shame, and it’s over far too soon.

Mark stumbles back and Damien's mouth slides off of him with a wet pop. His cock gives another feeble twitch as he gasps for air, his back colliding with the shitty plaster wall behind him. His thoughts are stuttering chaos, untranslatable. Damien's still on his knees, hands planted on his thighs, his head hanging heavy on his neck. He looks up slowly, mouth swollen and shiny with spit and maybe a little of Mark's come, cheeks ruddy with blood.

“Damien,” Mark says stupidly. His ears are ringing a little. He tucks himself clumsily back into his jeans, drags his fly back into place, leaves his belt gaping open because he just doesn't have the coordination for it yet. His heartbeat is starting to calm, but a vague sense of dread and panic is starting to fill his lungs. “I'm.”

Damien just looks away. Somehow, that's worse than anything he could have said.

The silence between them stretches out and breathes in ragged gasps. Mark pushes off the wall as soon as his legs will hold him. He opens his mouth, but there are no words, and Damien continues not to offer any either. His hand is on the doorknob before he registers moving, and then the door is swinging shut behind him and he’s fumbling with his keys and throwing himself onto his bike, heedless of the rain pouring down on him.

“Fuck,” Mark says aloud, numb fingers gripping the handlebars. His chest is being crushed by several thousand tons of things he can’t even begin to identify. He gets his keys into the ignition, somehow, and kickstarts the engine, reversing and pulling away haphazardly. There’s a corner store he passed on the way here that will probably have scotch, and that’s the only logical decision right now, after all that.

He pretends not to see the curtains of the motel room twitching in his rearview as he drives away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Final note - this seems like it needs a sequel, which is why I left it as a chaptered work even though it's a one-shot. If you want more, tell me what you want, hit subscribe, and I'll see what I can do! 
> 
> ps damien absolutely came in his pants


End file.
